King of Winter
by The King in White
Summary: Russia knew General Winter better than anyone else, something France learns to his ruin. A Hetalia one-shot.


**Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, and I make no profit from the writing of this fic.**

(AN): Hello again guys. As you can see, I'm not entirely dead. If you're waiting for the next chapter of Chasing Yesterday, I apologize. I played a lot of Dragon Age recently and am rewriting Dragon of Beauty whenever I do stop my day to get some writing done. It'll all come out in the end though.

This one is a gift to Nesi.

The inspiration for Hetalia one shots all come from discussion with her.

* * *

"_With audacity one can undertake anything, but not do everything." – France_

* * *

France breathed, air expelling from his lungs in a great gust of white mist that curled up towards the sky and dispersed as it passed by the ice stiffened hairs of his ornate and expensive bear fur hat. Tightening his hands around the worn wood and chill steel of his musket, the blonde nation scanned the grey horizon, before nodding in satisfaction and sinking into a crouch before his meagre fire.

The low groans of wounded men sounded around him, and France was unable to completely suppress the instinctive wince at the suffering of his constituent countrymen and their German allies. Austria and Prussia flitted about at the corners of his vision, scowls marking their faces and slightly mutinous expressions flitting across. The Germans yielded only reluctantly to his yoke, France's superior military strength notwithstanding.

The blonde was unable to completely suppress the sting of suspicion or the thrill of intrigue that rocked through his frame, and weary blue eyes sharpened, tracking the pair as they faded off into the shadows. He would watch them as much as he was able considering his main focus of hunting Russia through his own territory, a feat which required careful attention.

Turning his gaze skyward, France scanned across the clear night sky and settled his gaze on the crescent moon, biting a lip in thought at the moonlight set to wane and go dark within several short days. Closing his eyes, the would-be-conqueror brought his leather gloved hands to cup over his mouth and breathed into them, enjoying the short burst of warmth before crossing his arms and rubbing over his shoulders.

Despite his always tasteful fashion choice in picking out the dark and distinctive bear fur cloak, the blonde nation constantly felt on the verge of freezing in the frozen wasteland the tallest nation was forced to inhabit. If not for the wealth his victory would attain and the prestige of making Russia kneel, France doubted he'd have bothered moving into the infernal place in the first place.

Shaking his head in wry amusement, France passed his cold hands over the tiny fire in a last attempt to glean warmth before rising to his feet on the frozen logs that were his legs and stumbled into his tent, falling into the cold nest of fur and blankets his sleeping roll was and giving into exhaustion at last. The rumbling of his hungry stomach was the last thing on the blonde's mind before he surrendered to sleep.

* * *

Gunpowder cracked, a thunderous explosion among thunderous explosions, recoil kicking back down his arms, and France steadied his aim once more. Conditioned beyond pain or fear or nervousness in battle, the blonde cocked the hammer of his musket and fire again and again. Blood sprayed around him as bullets impacted, wet red holes bursting like crimson flowers over the bodies of combatants.

The blonde reached down into the worn pouch at his side, cursing as his hand found only three shells remaining. Palming them, France rammed and fired one after another through his musket, practiced aim dropping three more Russian soldiers to the frost-hardened dirt with muted thumps.

Throwing down the now useless firearm, the nation winced involuntarily as he became acutely aware of the blisters swelling on his palms from the searing hot musket barrel, dark iron conducting and containing the heat of the small gunpowder explosions that had occurred within.

France spun, pelting back down the slushed streets between troop lines, hurriedly ducking into an alley as a cannonball barreled past his face and smashed through the front window of a carpenter's shop. Fragile glass shattered, glittering chips exploding outwards in a spray of razor-sharp shards. One of the blonde's own troops shrieked in pain as the projectiles filled his eyes, ruining his sight forever.

Snow crunching behind him was the only warning the nation had.

It was enough as he ducked low, spinning back under the swing of an axe. His hand yanked his knife from his belt, point gleaming as France dove forward with the point leading. The blade slid into flesh with a low snip, skin and muscle parting near soundlessly as the blade passed between rings of cartilage to give a dull scrap of metal-on-bone when it severed the spine.

Sapphire eyes watched without emotion as the pale, bearded man clutched at his throat. Blood fountained out, the initial spray catching France across the cheek before dying down to a trickle, the Russian soldier's axe lay ignored to the side as its owner's throat was reduced to a crimson ruin. A bubble of blood grew at the corner of the soldier's lip, then he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, collapsing down to stare at the grey sky with glassy brown orbs.

The blade passed back out without a noise as the blonde wrapped his gloved hands around it and pulled back, stopping to wipe the blood off on the uniform of the rapidly cooling corpse.

Trumpets rang, the clarion call clear in the din, shouts and voices quieting, and France smiled.

_Victory_.

* * *

Orange crackled, bright sparks flickering dull as they crumbled away from burning lengths of wood to float along the howling wind currents to sputter dark on the frost-packed ground. Already the heat of the roaring flames roiled out, flash melting the packed snow and turning the frozen dirt into a clinging sludge, clinging to the feet of passerby as they fled.

Moscow _burned_, great wooden structures bursting into conflagrations. Flames wreathed the Kremlin, licking away futilely at the great brick walls that protected the Tsar's palace. France shook his head wryly, hollowed cheeks filled with shadow. At least _something_ would survive the destructive blaze.

The blonde ran through the streets of Moscow past burning buildings that cast a hellish glare in the night, bathing the streets and sky with red. Weakness trembled along his limbs, hunger growled in his stomach, and France grit his teeth. The weakness and starvation of his men had taken a long time to begin to have an effect on his strength, but when it came, it had come swiftly.

Screams echoed overhead, and France threw his arm over his face as glass exploded out. A man screamed, long and high and it sent shivers up the nation's spine. A great burning weight slammed into him, and the blue-eyed man swore as he kicked off an assailant and turned to do desperate battle. The rage that had sung in his veins snuffed out like a dying star when all that greeted him was a blackened husk, eyeballs boiled into jelly and trailing down the cheeks.

The burnt man reached again, and desiccated lips peeled back from a swollen, bleeding mouth.

"_Please_."

France yelled in hysteria, pulling his ornate ceremonial saber from his side and attacking the man with animalistic ferocity. The dull blade did its work, tearing the tormented soul into shreds and putting him out of his misery. Collapsing to his knees, the blonde keeled forward and heaved, expelling what little there was in his stomach. He had no idea how long he crouched there.

Eventually, the nation rose, pale and shaking to refuse to glance again at the _thing_ he had destroyed. Turning on his heel, France fled like a whipped dog with his tail between his legs.

Retreating from the city, France tossed a look up to the horizon and witnessed Prussia and Austria standing away, blank looks on their faces.

Their eyes did the judging for them, and the Frenchman knew he would not hear the end of it.

Seizing control back over himself from the fear, the blonde slowed to a walk and composed himself into a pale, but steady image of leadership.

The shattered formation of his invading army was in tatters, but France drew his countrymen around him with an air of command and regality.

"We retreat in an orderly fashion to Kaluga."

Raising his gaze to the Germans, France gave a silent challenge. After a moment, Austria nodded and fell back into the Grande Armée. Prussia followed suit, but not before the leading nation saw a gleam in his blue eyes.

Predation and ambition. A dark premonition washed over France, and he shook it off.

* * *

Snow blew around him, obscuring the world in a whirl of white. Clasping one hand over an ear in an ineffectual bid to block out the lonely howl of the blizzard, France cupped the other one around his mouth.

"Bonjour!"

His shout was swallowed up immediately by the storm, swept away to join the high moaning screech. Blue eyes narrowed, and France pulled both hands around his mouth in a bid to amplify the shout.

"_Hello!_"

Futile.

Dropping his hands, the nation folded his arms to try and conserve some heat before setting off at random. With no idea where he was and no idea where he was headed, there seemed only one option to him: Start looking and hope the exercise kept the blood from freezing in his body.

Every step was greeted by a crunch of ice, his boots sinking into the snow underneath the frozen cover. France cursed, trying and failing to ignore the snow slipping into his boots and melting, soaking his feet. Not that the difference would have been all that much, considering the blowing flurry of flakes falling onto his uniform and face and melting.

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch.

The Frenchman brought his hands back up to his face and cast an eye to the unchanging white void.

"Hello!" he bellowed.

"Hello." Returned a low, malevolent whisper, little more than the sound of ice breaking. Heart leaping into his throat, France turned to the source of the voice and promptly received a bony fist to the face.

Wheeling back and clutching at his bleeding nose, the blonde spat hotly "What do you think you're-" His voice strangled off, rosy face turning grey.

Twin empty sockets drilled into him, black as the abyss. A fleshless mouth chattered, teeth clicked ominously while a skeletal hand reached up to readjust a tattered _ushanka._ Four faded gold stars lurked upon each epaulette.

_General_.

"You've overstayed your welcome, boy." The skeleton informed him coldly, holding out his right hand. Before France's eyes a saber of ice coalesced, lit with an inner azure light. The frozen blade arced up; the blonde's dazed eyes following. It was only as the saber swung down that adrenaline burst back through the nation's veins, and he leapt back, scrambling away from the fatal intent of the animated man of bones.

Fumbling hands sought the familiar gold hilt of France's overtly ceremonial but not terribly practical saber. "Are you Death?" he gasped out, pointing the blade at the supernatural force while sinking up to his knees in the snow.

Mocking laughter met him. "_Death_? I am not Death." The blank sockets regarded him with dark amusement as the skeleton crouched. "I am Winter!" the undead General roared, springing forward to dash over the snow.

Ice and steel clashed again and again, the mortal nation trembling under the onslaught, with the undead season pursuing his demise without tire. France grew more and more desperate as the chill began to freeze his eyelids shut. The blowing snow piled up around his legs, making it more difficult to move, and his muscles grew tired in the cold.

Then the blonde missed a parry, and ice slid home.

The freezing prism punctured through his chest, bursting across his lung and passed his ribs to protrude from his back. Wind howled again, seeming to tighten around the pair. Cold began to seep in from within him, and the nation collapsed forward to lean into the bony shoulder of the General. France wanted to sleep so badly, and almost as if in response, the murderous intent bled out of the skeleton.

"Rest now." Winter ordered almost gently, and France felt like agreeing.

"Kolkolkol." An inhuman force tore the skeleton away from the blonde, heaving the undead General yards away to crash to the ground in a clatter of bones.

A cream scarf fluttered in the wind, slapping across the dazed France's face. Snapping back to reality, the blonde barely had time to scream before a gloved hand wrapped around the hilt of the saber imbedded in his flesh and tore it from him.

Apathetic violet eyes stared into blue before turning away with dismissal to glare at the emptiness of General Winter's face. The gentle smile on the tallest nation's face was entirely absent as he stared down his yearly foe and wartime ally.

"It is enough, for now." Russia ordered, striding forward to stand directly before the skeleton. Winter spat and cursed "Your fool mercy boy is going to be the death of you one day!"

Purple eyes narrowed, and a gloved first punched out to grasp the neck of the season. Russia began to push back and down, bending Winter backwards until the spine of the undead General began to creak and crack under the pressure.

"Perhaps, but that day is not today, and I am still the Tsar."

Russia released his ally, who sputtered and nodded reluctantly. Satisfied, the tallest nation turned back around and stalked to where France stood half buried in the snow. Regarding the freezing blood with an indecipherable look, Russia bent down and seized a handful of France's formerly meticulously kept locks.

Then he yanked, pulling the blonde up and out amidst the screams of pain. Tossing the retreating invader down on his back, Russia hardly gave France time to groan before a boot slammed down on his chest.

Leaning over the downed nation, Russia murmured lowly, voice carrying over the winter storm. "Get you gone. If you ever come here again, I'll kill you myself." Then he was gone, undead ally with him.

Without the presence of General Winter, the unnatural snowstorm quickly subsided, and France was left staring up at the moonless night sky until one of his own men pulled his broken and bleeding body from the snow bank.

France never returned.

_Defeat_.

* * *

"_I may be kindly, I am ordinarily gentle, but in my line of business I am obliged to will terribly what I will at all." – Russia_

* * *

(AN): Honestly, this one didn't turn out how I planned. I don't think it's terrible, but I don't think it's the best either. But ahh well, Hetalia is not particularly my forte in the first place. I just sort of wish it had been longer.

If you notice that Russia is a lot more sane here than in canon, you're right. Russia's mind cracks like an egg because of his exceptionally bloody history. Without the World War and Russian Revolution and all that rot, he's a _bit_ more straight.

France's quote is Napoleon, Russia's is Catherine the Great. This story was based of Napoleon's failed Invasion of Russia, particularly around the burning of Moscow.

I don't know when I'll do Firebrand, but this and that fic ought to be considered as part of the same continuum. This wouldn't be needed reading for that whenever it finally does come up, but there's a touch of foreshadowing here.

Till next time.


End file.
